...and it's nice to have a little wind at your back

After pretty much dodging a bullet with hurricane Sandy, the DC area also fully avoided the nor'easter that followed on the super storm's heels just about a week later. Though the second storm slammed areas of the northeast with as much as a foot of snow, all we seemed to get here in the District were some clouds, some late night flurries and a bit of wind.

I was hoping to see least a dusting of the white stuff when I headed out the front door at 3:58am for my Thursday morning run, but the only remnants of the nor'easter in Cleveland Park were some water beads on a few cars (the four in the neighborhood that were waxed) and about a 15mph stiff wind coming out of the north west. The breeze didn't seem like much of a factor when I started running east toward Connecticut avenue, but when I hit the major artery on the corner of Yuma and turned headfirst into the wind north on Connecticut, I realized the gusts were pretty formidable and cold enough (at least for early November) to immediately blow away any lingering effects of Wednesday night's red wine.

Exercising used to be fun for me...but now that I'm on the backside of fifty, it pretty much just hurts. In light of the rapid physical deterioration, I'm usually pretty content to use any weather-related obstacle like wind as an excuse to ease up...especially when I'm running. It just feels better when I don't have to push so hard. But something was different about Thursday.

I'm guessing it could have been the fact that I was still riding high from the election outcome, but for some reason I resisted the usual temptation to just cruise and pretty much pushed myself against the wind uphill on Connecticut toward Chevy Chase. When I turned left on Nebraska Ave the breeze became less of factor, and by the time I turned left again on Wisconsin, the northwest wind was squarely at my back. After fighting the headwind for more than half the run, it felt good to have the push at my back. I just kind of took long strides moving southeast on Wisconsin...and though I was clearly moving at a good pace...it didn't seem to be too taxing.

When I turned back into the wind heading north on 37th street toward the house for the last quarter mile, it would have been easy to let up. However after having the wind at my back for a while, the gusts in my face now felt more invigorating than anything...and I pushed harder before kicking it into high gear for the last few blocks.

If you believe in the power of a strong middle class, the virtues of equity, fairness and justice for all Americans and if you think diversity is a strength and not a weakness, this past Tuesday was a good day. It wasn't a landslide, or even close to the mandate that many of the spinsters are trying to imply, but it was a clear repudiation of extremism and a good night for people that work for a living. For progressives, there's been a fair amount of headwind for way too long. But now...thanks to a few million folks that pulled the right lever...the wind is at our back for a while. It won't likely last forever, or even for more than maybe a couple of strides. However it would be good to enjoy the fruits of victory, and to reap the replenishing benefits that can only come from a wind-aided run.  We're going to need to be rested for the next test, so let's enjoy this outcome and replenish our resources in hopes we can keep this going for a while.

 

You can start by having a good extended weekend. If you can, spend at least a minute to think about the men and women that served this country so we all have the right to cast a vote.

Have a good Veteran's Day weekend.

Close your eyes and relax...

...and I wish I could just go fishing.

The ominous  charred ruins of the short-lived Pacific Ocean Park Amusement park and pier that served as the border between Santa Monica and Venice beaches when I was a kid looked like a movie set, and as I later came to find out, it actually was. POP (Pee-oh-pee as it was affectionately called by the locals) opened in 1958, and was envisioned at the time that it would compete with Disneyland. The nautical theme park in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica, California drew 20,000 visitors the day it opened, and though it saw early success, a host of factors contributed to plummeting attendance and it eventually closed down in October of 1967.

My mom took me to POP several times when I was a little chap, but my most vivid memories of the old amusement park are tied to the period between its 1967 closure and its eventual demolition in 1974.  Though I’m not sure when the practice actually started, I went to the beach every single summer day from the time I was in about 5^th grade until the beloved wave-riding ritual was rudely interrupted in the summer of 1977 by the need to begin my planned path to the National Football League (likely with the Los Angeles Rams…via an underwhelming career at Hamilton high school and an even more disastrous stint at UCLA).

 

Every day, regardless of weather, a couple of buddies and I schlepped down to the beach via the No. 28 Blue Ocean Park Santa Monica bus and spent the day frolicking in the Pacific where Ocean Park Boulevard met the sand at lifeguard station 26.  As we bobbed in the salty water waiting for the next set of rideable waves, the burned out skeletal remnants of the abandon amusement park’s pier framed the view to the south...and seemed to beckon us to visit the seemingly haunted ruins which served as the setting for the final scene of the famed TV series “The Fugitive.”  

 Some mornings, probably about twice a month, my friends Michael Cooper, Keith Sylber and I would get up early and head down to the shore before 6am to spend a couple hours fishing before starting the more taxing surfing routine. On those days we’d often have to catch the Blue Pico No.7 bus (which ran earlier…it was a 3-mile trip), and walk the mile on the boardwalk in the dark down to Ocean Park. The jagged pilings of the abandon pier were menacing, and we had to ignore some threatening “danger” and “no trespassing” signs before negotiating a couple of formidable chain-linked fences (with barbed wire on top) to gain entry to the abandoned amusement park area. Once in there, there was a rickety ladder (made from burned out 2x4 wood) you had to climb to get up to what was left of the pier, and it was always a challenge to get all of our gear up to that level. Once up to the pier, it seemed like a war zone. Everything was battered and broken and seemed to be covered with soot. What was left of the decaying buildings and former thrill rides were covered with graffiti and danger signs.

There were two sections where the pier was completely washed out or burned away, and someone had constructed two planks to bridge the two 15’ or so spans (it seemed like the Grand Canyon) over the 30’ drop to the rolling ocean and broken pilings below. It always took a few minutes to get the nerve to cross, and we usually had to flip a coin to see who ventured across first to test sturdiness. The plank, which was no more than 12 inches wide, looked like a toothpick above the churning sea…and it always bowed a bit as you made your way to the other side. Thankfully nobody ever fell, or even really stumbled as I recall, but once we made it out to the end of what was left of the pier to where an old roller coaster once stood, we were usually rewarded by a morning’s catch of some pretty nice butter-mouthed perch.

One time, as we were heading back to shore, there were a couple of older kids just on the other side of the last span and as we approached they picked up their end of the plank and acted as though they were going to toss the “bridge” into the sea. I remember the smile on the guy’s face as he motioned as though he was going to throw our only safe way of passage into the water. I looked into the guy’s eyes and essentially pleaded with him not to do it. My buddy Michael’s older brother Scott was with us that day, and as I tried to negotiate with the cat on the other side Michael’s brother Scott said something like the following…

“Listen motherfu#ker$, go ahead and throw it in. When you do, I’m going to jump into the water and swim to shore. I’m going get there before you do, and I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of that ladder and when you climb down, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you with a two-by-four.” Not sure if he could of pulled it off, but at least to me, he didn’t appear to be bluffing. The kid on the other side who was unmoved by my more diplomatic passive approach seemed to do some math in his head and decided to buy it too. Not long after Scott’s promise, the kid gingerly replaced the plank so we too could cross. As we started, they ran…and though we gave chase for a while…we ultimately decided to let it go.  I think Scott’s plan was to beat them to a pulp anyway…we just needed to get across the span first.

What’s the point? I’m lost too. Just trying to fill some space on a Friday morning…and maybe take your mind off the east coast storm damage and looming election for just five minutes. Hope it helped.

It’s Friday, and whether you’re relaxing or working to elect folks committed to freedom, justice, fairness and equality, start the day with a little music. If you do, you will have a better day, and a better weekend.

BTW...sorry for all the mistakes...I know this is a disaster

Another sunny honeymoon

...so sit for a spell and visit with a friend over coffee

As she does just about every Sunday morning, my mom called at about 11:40am (8:40 PDT) to chat a bit before heading out to church services at the Disciples of Christ Church in Santa Paula, California. Amidst the conversation mostly about the goings on in her relatively small California citrus agriculture town southeast of Santa Barbara, she pivoted subjects to the old home area of Abercrombie, North Dakota and mentioned that longtime resident Louise Haarstad had passed away. Louise was the wife of Oscar Haarstad, who along with his brother Selmer (Sam) owned the old Ford Dealership and Oliver Farm Implement store on the north side of Broadway toward the east end of the main business district of the small Midwest hamlet.

I didn’t know Louise particularly well, but whenever I was back “home” in Aber (as it’s called by most locals) and would walk into the Community Hall for coffee each morning, Louise always greeted me with a smile and warmth one would usually reserve for a beloved grandkid. The news of her passing got me thinking about that little town that sits just west of the Red River which serves as the border for the neighboring state of Minnesota, and about how much time I spent there from about 1980 to 2000. At least once each year (usually more) over that two-decade span, I would go back for extended periods to visit my family and even worked several times out of the IBEW hall in Fargo. There were a ton of good things about those yearly excursions, but one of the best was walking uptown each morning when possible and kibitzing with the old folk over coffee at the community hall.   

The community center where they’d meet Monday through Saturday in the Richland County, North Dakota town of approximately 264 stands almost in the center of the main drag on the southwest corner Broadway (County Road 4) and 2nd street. The almost exclusively American made cars and pickups that belong to the townsfolk and farmers that gather each morning for coffee are parked head-first into the curb at a 45-degree angle along Broadway across from the old meat market. The former butcher shop, which was converted into senior apartments, sits sandwiched between the Abercrombie, ND post office and the building that formerly housed the Aber Café (which was owned by my mom’s brother and my uncle Donald). Just as a side note, that old meat market had a sign in front of the front driveway on the garage door that made the Paul Harvey radio show one day. It read something like “Park here and be ground.”

The Aber Bar, with its classic red and white Schmidt’s beer sign, still operates just west of old Café (there’s a new metal building which houses the Aber Grocery in between) and just east of the post office on the north side of Broadway is the old building that housed the old Haarstad Ford dealership (mentioned above) which closed several decades ago. Across 2^nd street from the Community Center are the remnants of an old gas station (Texaco as I recall) and just south of that on the east side of the gravel 2^nd street heading south is the old brick blacksmith shop that still stands today. I believe the town uses it to store various machinery.

 

 

The west end of town is bordered by the Emanuel Lutheran Church and cemetery where generations of area folks rest peacefully along “Old 81.” That once major north/south highway which stretched northward through Fargo to the Canadian boarder and once as far south as the Mexican line has long since been replaced by Interstate 29. Like so many of the towns that dried up and died when bypassed by the Interstate highway system, Abercrombie should probably have perished too…but it didn’t. The Fargo & Southern and Milwaukee Road railroad tracks are gone. So are the banks, several gas stations, the hardware store, the Ford dealership, the café, the Blacksmith and several other businesses. But the Post Office, the Standard gas station, the Grocer, Red River Telephone, a newer truss factory and of course the bar, are still all operating. At least part of the reason  the small town survived is probably due to the historic Fort Abercrombie which sits on the west bank of the River. Parts of the fence and several blockhouses still stand today, and County road 4 which leads into Aber literally stretches across the Red River from Minnesota before winding directly through the Historic Fort.

 

 

As mentioned above, at least for me my favorite thing about this place was going up to the Community Hall each morning was chatting with the various old characters that sat around the table. They always seemed to get a kick out of the kid from Los Angeles, and by first time I’d walk in for coffee each trip, it usually wouldn’t be a surprise because the news of my blue pickup with California plates parked in my Grandpa’s or Uncle’s driveway had usually made its way around  town. I’d always receive a warm greeting from everybody...better than I ever received back in LA, and would often spend hours just sitting and visiting with regulars like Phil Balmey, Ed Herrick, Wayne Herrick, Munce, Kenny Jacobson, Jalmer Larson, Eddie Miller, Fritz Snyder, Maynard, Chief, and a host of other staples. My grandpa would never come up...he saw no good reason to part with 35 cents for coffee that he could brew at home for less. The men sat at one table and would talk about the weather, the price of wheat, how many bushels per acre of soy beans they got on the Anderson land, and the amount of moisture in the rain gage out in their various yards. They’d also repeat a lot of old stories…and tell some really bad jokes. I always laughed though…there was just kind of a weird therapy to it all.

A not so slightly higher grade of conversation took place at an adjancent table where the women would sit and visit too. They’d also collaborate on some daily puzzle in the Fargo Forum newspaper (Jumble I think) and I always got points for crossing the forbidden gender lines and daring to sit with the women a spell. I’d chat  with folks like Irene Erickson, Ceil Larson, Elaine and always Louise. Folks always seemed appreciative…but I always left each morning knowing full-well I’d gotten far more out of the experience than any of them ever received by talking with me. The best part was the daily ritual offered a consistency and peace that was so lacking in the chaos of a big and socially cold city like Los Angeles. No matter what, no matter how crazy things were in Los Angeles, I knew I could hop in my pickup anytime and within 40 hours (of driving) or so, I’d have the healing of the Abercrombie Community Hall and it’s wholesome people that I knew would be there forever.

I haven’t by back there since my uncle Donald died over five years ago, and the last time I did visit one of the old chaps that was always happiest to see me looked at me with a confused expression after we talked for a spell and said “who am I talking to…I don’t remember you.”  There are still one or two of them left, but to the best of my knowledge almost all of the folks mentioned above have passed away. Many…have been gone for years. Now…Louise has joined them too.  

What’s the point of all this? I don’t know either. But if you find yourself too wrapped up in the day-to-day chaos of life, you may want to take at least a moment to recognize that the things you may take for granted that won’t be here forever. Stop…inhale, look around, and take in the people, pets and things about the world that mean the most to you. You can initiate that perspective gaining experience by having a good weekend, and by starting it with a little good music. Have a good two days, and whatever you’re doing, don’t forget to breathe.

 

Any old time...

...and if you haven't been on the cover of GQ...read on

It’s not often I waste much time reading drivel on the internet. Sure, I sit for endless hours at home with my laptop open, but that’s mostly light multi-tasking like looking for Fort Lauderdale retirement properties or shopping for a new ukulele. The cool thing is that I can do this casual surfing while enriching my brain by keeping up with the Kardashians or watching the New Jersey Housewives 3-part reunion on television. Just as a side note, there are times, like say a NASCAR Sprint Cup race were I’m just too focused to be distracted by a computer…but that’s not what I’m talking about here.  I can get into some heavy laptop work when my wife is watching some mindless hogwash about a new book on CSPAN (Zzzz…) or the snore-fest presidential debates, but for the most part I put off serious computer work that requires a ton of focus (like adjusting my fantasy lineup) for times when I’m alone and can really concentrate absent the interference of television.

One of the few benefits of getting up at 3:55am each weekday is I have just that kind of time to focus on online work. This past Wednesday I was down in the basement gym and between bench-press reps, answering emails and checking my ESPN waiver order, I noticed a news story on MSN about the craziest men’s fashion faux pas of the last 20 years. If you’re forced to read it appeared to be the dream story with lots of big pictures and short captions, so I dove in.

Well, as someone who is pretty confident I’m styling by virtue of my adult Garanimals (click here to learn more), I always take special pleasure in catching up on the idiotic styles of men who are convinced they’re reinventing the world through drawing attention to themselves by looking like morons.  Thankfully the article didn’t disappoint.  The goofy pictures accompanied by blistering comments were hilarious, and the piece effectively poked fun at a myriad of incredibly stupid fashion trends tried by adult males.

They covered a ton of ground…blasting guyliner (eyeliner for men) and ridiculing ridiculous hairstyles that included frosted tips, faux hawks and mullets. They made fun of wallet chains (noting that most knuckleheads that wear them have little or nothing in their wallets to secure), and slammed Ashton Kutcher for wearing manpris (capris pants for men…and they had pictures of him). They rightfully crucified men’s sandals or “mandals” (permissible perhaps if you’re parting the Red Sea…otherwise just wear shoes), sweat suits (OK for aging mafia folks), carpenter jeans (but only if you’re really working with a hammer and nails) and chinstrap beards (fine if you’re pre-puberty and can’t grow real facial hair).

They pummeled soul patches, flat-billed baseball caps, sagging pants (if you’re going to wear them that low, just walk around in your underwear), wind pants and visors. They even addressed those that have completely thrown in the fashion towel, and made fun of men that were Crocs.

Needless to say the dead-on piece was funny, and while scrolling through I couldn’t help but laugh out loud at all the foolish fashion don’ts committed by so many of my brethren. It was also refreshing to see somebody telling it like it is when it comes to such poor style sense. I was thoroughly enjoying all the fun when all of the sudden, the next picture was of the once popular loose-fitting clown pants known as  Zubaz. While these baggy pants may have looked a little weird, I used to wear them with regularity back in the late 80’s and when I did…I looked cool. I had a white-and-black pair and  a pink-and-black pair, and along with my bare mid-drift Pit Bull Gym muscle tees and lime-green fanny pack, I actually looked pretty hip.  

The arrogance of the article was starting to get a little annoying really, and I begin to wonder who in the hell anointed these folks as fashion police and gave them the right to make fun of men’s fashion…especially former staples of my wardrobe. I let it slide though, because while they were wrong about the Zubaz, the rest of the previous pictures were truly spot on. Then…I scrolled to the next picture.

It was a photo country singer Kenny Chesney with a puka shell necklace and a caption that read simply “No Shelled Necklaces.”  Now…while the first part of this lame article was barely worth a chuckle, this was clearly not funny at all.  What the hell is wrong with wearing puka shells? I’ve proudly sported a tight white shell necklace every day since about 1975 (perhaps that’s their point), and I don’t see what the heck is wrong with it. Sure…it may be a little old-school, but it’s not like I’m walking around with pierced holes in my earlobes big enough to hang a week’s worth of dry-cleaning or going out in public wearing bright colored skinny jeans. These shells are who I am, and represent a  youth where every, single summer day was spent riding the waves in Santa Monica. Every single summer day.  I’ve earned these shells, and now that I’ve heard they’re taboo (for the hundredth time), I’m never taking them off. Never.

This is why it’s a waste a lot of time reading…especially the junk that’s online. Most of it just isn’t credible. Thank god for Deadliest Catch and Iron Men…now that’s the way to spend your discretionary time.

When this whole Friday morning email/blog thing started, it really was more about the music. I suspect only one of two of the six folks that read this pitifully performing blog each week actually click the link to the song. If I were you I’d skip the poor mistake-filled writing that leads into the music, and just click the link to the tune. That’s really the idea…to start your morning with a song before the business and craziness of the day conspire to rob you of the morning peace. Today’s offering won’t be everybody’s favorite musical genre, but the vocal harmonies and solo instrumental riffs in this tune should be enjoyable even if you’re a man sporting a mullet and wearing a sweat suit with mandals (and socks).

Have a great weekend.

It's too late...

…and if you’re interested…here’s the article.

Mandatory - Craziest men's fashion styles

...and those jingle bells are fast approaching

There are fourteen tabs along the bottom of the holiday card Excel spreadsheet, one for each year since 1999 when the then rather simple process of writing a few festive greetings to friends and business associates became a bit more formalized. I always sent out a few cards to family and friends in the years prior to that…but when going to work for my local union in the late nineties, it seemed like a good idea to keep track of the names and addresses in a more organized way. If you click the 1999 tab you can plainly see the 16 business-related folks (didn’t list the family cards in the early years) that received cards that first more organized year, and all but one of the original sixteen recipients are still on the list today.

The spreadsheet is really pretty systematized for a generally scatter-brained person like me, and includes columns for names, addresses, date written and the date the cards are eventually mailed. There are 285 cards on the 2012 tab (there were 283 in 2011…which means only 2 were added in 2012…I’ve gotta get out more) so I started the process of writing the first one this year on October 2nd (last year it was October 14th). Basically, I have to average roughly 5 cards each business day to get them all done by the preferred early December mailing date. I come into the office each weekday about 6:30am, click on the Butch Thompson Trio holiday station on Pandora and start writing…usually covering the entire card with a hand-written note. You see, that’s the deal…to me a genuine old-school holiday card has to contain at least some old fashioned hand-written writing. For the love of god, I’ve never figured out why folks send cards containing only an antiseptic pre-written message…often failing to even sign their name. However as we rapidly plunge into a prosaic (learned that word this week looking for an antonym for romantic) headphone-wearing culture that increasingly proposes marriage via mobile device, it’s obvious that’s no longer the prevailing sentiment.

The reason the list is so long is that you can engage in some pretty sketchy behavior without getting removed. You can routinely ridicule my work, insult my politics, fail to stay in touch, gleefully point out my poor grammar, correct my use of the word “literally” in this blog, make fun of my poor spelling, vote Republican, be a bully, drive cars made by children in Korea, consistently dominate every conversation, possess an ego bigger than Kansas and even generally act like a jackass and still receive a card.  I’ve got all kinds in there, including folks that I haven’t talked to or heard from in over ten years and at least a couple that don’t care for me at all.

 

For the most part though the cool thing is the list is made up of people I largely admire and adore…who put up with all my bad behavior (including many of the sins listed above) throughout the year while still managing to give me more out of a relationship than I ever provide or ever will give back in return. It’s a good list…and to be honest, other than changing your address  without telling me (there’s even a workaround for that), I really can’t think of one thing you can do to stop receiving cards.   Well…then again…I guess there is one way.

Early each October when I turn my attention to the card writing ritual, I always open the Excel program and create a tab for the current year. When I do, I scroll through the list and reminisce fondly about (or cuss at) each person. Eventually though I happen upon the name of someone that’s passed away…and when that occurs, I highlight the name in yellow and make the appropriate note. Usually, the impact of having to mark these passings causes me to reflect a bit, and count up the number of those that are gone since the process began. Sometimes I go back to see how long a person has been gone…and it is figuratively (actually…I think this is where you can actually use literally) shocking to me to see how long it’s often been. Many times I’m thinking the person passed just a year or two ago…but usually I am figuratively blown away (I think I’m getting this literally/figuratively thing down) when I realize it’s often been five or more years.

This year I had to highlight the names of good close friends and true mentors. When I started writing their respective cards at this time last year, there was zero indication that they wouldn’t be around this season. As far as I and most others knew they were perfectly healthy…and now, they are no longer here. There are seven highlighted rows on the 2012 spreadsheet, and all of the folks made a profound impact on my life and are people that I thought would be here forever.

I don’t want to highlight any more names in yellow in 2013, so please slow down long enough to enjoy life and the approaching holiday season. Life is far more fragile than so many of us realize, and if you think work is the most important thing in the world than you really do need to go for a run, or pour a glass of red wine, or watch a sunrise, or walk a dog, or hug a child or do whatever meaningful thing floats your boat.  As a matter of fact, it’s going to be a wonderful pre-election Fall weekend, so if you’re doing a little understandable electoral work, you might want to also make the time to do at least some of those other important things too. I’m sending out 285 union made holiday cards this year, and I want to order and use at least that many in 2013 so take care of yourself and stick around.

Have a great weekend and don’t forget to listen to a little music.

 

Through many dangers, toils and snares...

...and if you're a teacher, you really should smile

While finishing up a relaxing dinner Wednesday night I heard the unwelcome sound of the revving motorcycle ringtone on my mobile device and reluctantly walked into the kitchen to retrieve the phone and see who was calling. Thankfully, I recognized the name that popped up on the screen as my good friend and NFL agent Chuck Price. It would be a better story to go on about how he was calling to suggest I vindicate my embarrassing collegiate punting career by suiting up as a modern day George Blanda for the Redskins this weekend, but being a good judge of gridiron talent and a successful agent, that’s not why he was calling.

As it turns out he was sitting out in California with Rahim and Hasan Mohamed, a couple of former players of ours dating back to our high school coaching days at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles. The two talented brothers had been our quarterbacks back in the early 90s (first Rahim…then his younger brother Hassan), and both of them also started in the secondary for me  on our defensive squads (almost everybody played both ways). Rahim and Hassan also lead the Fairfax Lions to consecutive undefeated league titles, all while maintaining decent grades which they both parlayed into college football careers and solid four-year degrees.

Chuck opened the call by saying the three of them were sitting around after practice (they’re now all coaching part time at a school in LA) telling old stories and they started laughing when the conversation moved to me. He handed the phone to Hassan first, and though it’s been over 20 years, we started reminiscing and laughing as though we were still standing on the Fairfax Ave field of the West Hollywood campus. After talking and cutting up a bit with Hassan, he passed the phone to his brother. Rahim and I also were also instantly time-warped back to the early nineties, and it was good to laugh and catch up with a great former player…and a now successful fully matured adult. Both brothers are doing well, have families, and are working as coaches molding the lives of young athletes. It was good to chat with the guys…and though it’s been over 20 years since those glorious football seasons at Fairfax, whenever I run into any of the “kids” from those great teams, they almost always make it a point to pass along thanks for the impact their coaches had on their lives.

Though I now reside in the east, each Fall I make a trek to Los Angeles and always take in an inner-city high school game while there (Last year it was Fairfax vs. Dorsey at the famed Jackie Robinson Stadium on Rodeo ((not the one in Beverly Hills)) Road on the west end of the Crenshaw District). There is nothing like an inner-city game on a Friday night under the lights, but the best part of the experience is that almost without fail, some former player (or players) will inevitably walk up on the sidelines with a warm fraternal greeting that transcends the decades. It is always so good to see these guys all grown up…now…as not so young men. But the best part is they always say thank you…over 20 years later…and to be honest…it always blows me away.

Perhaps it is just the dynamic of teaching young people that lends itself to the expression of gratitude from former students (players) so many years down the road…I’m not really sure. I only know that it really hasn’t happened in any other job I’ve ever held since…or in the one I have now. Maybe 20 years from now folks will swing by the Sunrise Assisted Living Facility on Connecticut to say thank  you for the annoying memos I sent them about not bringing their dog to work…but I’m thinking it won’t happen. There’s something about teachers that are special…and though I’m now 50, I think almost daily about former educators and coaches and the extraordinary impact they still have on my life still today.

 

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I get up before 4am and head out for a run. As I limp through through the dark DC streets, I am tempted to ease up...or just plain pack it in. Almost without fail, just when the pitfalls of aging, red wine addiction and my general physical deterioration conspire to convince me to quit, I can literally hear and see my old football coach Don Threatt screaming at me. "Come on boy...is that the best you've got..that's a crying shame." Then, just as I did over thirty years ago...I suck it up and kick it into high gear. Three decades later, and he's still encouraging me to do better.

So…to Mrs. Frazier, Miss Chan,  Miss Valenta, Miss Ito, Miss Sedor, Mrs. McConnell, Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Mc Elrath, Mr. Pearlman, Mrs. Lee (my piano teacher), Charlie Johnson, Leroy Nelson, Scott Porter, Gary Ledas, Leslie Williams, Coach Threatt, Jimmy Petterson, Jerry Solender, Coach Hahn, Coach Price, Coach Smith, Coach Donahue, Prof. Hoefer, Dr. Sue Schurman, Dr. Louis Gawthrop, Amanda Pacheco, Bob Pleasure, Fred Kotler, Mark Breslin, Gene Morrill, Jeff Grabelsky and most of all Mrs. Brungard, thank you for being the extraordinary educators and coaches that continue to influence my life and countless others every single day. It ain’t (only one of those named above taught English) always easy…but there is no nobler profession. Thanks for being a teacher. Thanks for making a difference. Thanks for making it last.

 

One of the best things several of named above passed along was an appreciation for all kinds of music. About the only good thing about this blog  each Friday is the attached song. So, in honor of another week in the books, take a minute and listen to a little music. This one has been played here before...well over a year ago...but it's worth the repeat. Have a great weekend.

 

Rock me mama...

 

 

 

 

 

 

...and I'm getting my vote hands ready

He’d hold his right hand high above his head for extra effect…kind of like he was making some sort of proclamation or promise. Then…always in a loud and passionate voice, my grandpa would say the following in his thick Swedish accent: “If I live to be as old as Methuselah…I will never vote for another Republican.” He was perhaps among the most religiously dogmatic people I’ve ever known…but despite his fervent social conservatism, from the time after the Great Depression up until his death at 96 in 1991, to my knowledge, he never voted for a Republican for U.S. President (he may have pulled the lever a time or two for Republican North Dakota Senator Mark Andrews).

I never really got why my grandfather was so committed to the Democratic Party, and given my knowledge of his deep-rooted traditional religious values, I still don’t know how he reconciled his old-school social conservatism with his pledge to support only Democrats.  He apparently didn’t allow his judgment to be clouded by any ancillary issues…however seemingly diametrically opposed to his religious beliefs…he just voted his pocketbook. He didn’t begrudge the wealthy for voting Republican...he expected them to. I even got the sense that if he ever were to become wealthy…he’d vote that way too. But he also counted on the working man to vote in his economic interests as well…and for him…that always meant pulling the lever for a D. It was just the way it was and there was no need for any of the polarizing, rancorous debate that dominates the airwaves today.

Speaking of obnoxious political debates on television, I was sitting in the US Airways Lounge at LAX’s Terminal 1 this past Sunday when the NBC Sunday morning talk show (Meet the Press I think) with David Gregory began. It was a bit outside my preferred New Jersey Housewives/Kardashian’s TV genre, but because there was only one flat-screen and no visible clicker…I begrudgingly started to watch.  Not long into the program there was a discussion involving surrogates from both the Obama and Romney campaigns presumably on the set to analyze the week’s election related events. Gregory framed the discussion with a less-than-flattering analysis of Romney’s past couple of weeks…citing various gaffs and highlighting mounting evidence hinting that the former Massachusetts Governor may be out of touch with the average working American.

The discussion included current Massachusetts’s Governor Duval Patrick, and a woman (Kelly Ayotte I believe) senator from the state of New Hampshire.  My normal M.O. would have been to keep working and ignore the show, however as I continued answering emails, the civil tone of the discourse caught my attention and I began to watch more closely. In the present-day sound-bite/gotcha journalism environment the exchange seemed almost like a throwback to an era when folks like William F. Buckley would sit reclined in his chair with a twinkle in his eye, holding his ink pen in a relaxed fashion, while having a respectful conversation with someone who often held a completely different point of view.

Unlike Chris Matthews interrupting and screaming into the camera…Gregory and his guests seemed to be having a ratings killing respectful dialogue. However it wasn’t long before it became rather apparent that both the Sunday show campaign lackeys were largely repeating party talking points…which included the Ayotte lambasting Obama for his failed job’s record, and Duval noting that the President created more jobs in four years than his predecessor (Bush II) did in the previous eight.  Almost regardless of the subject, one speaker seemed to have a statistic that somehow completely refuted the pervious speaker’s point. The discussion was however respectful and refreshingly civil…and it got me to thinking that the normal polarizing rancor over most elections really is largely unnecessary. The fact-of-the-matter is that there are absolutely good reasons for certain people to vote for Governor Romney…and an equally appropriate rationale to pull the lever for the President. At the end-of-the-day, there really isn’t a need for all the acidic rhetoric and heated debate…because knowing who to vote for, as my grandfather wisely figured out long ago, really isn’t all that complicated.

You see…if you love this country, if you are patriotic, and if you are among the percentage of population that is quite well off (it’s more than 1%), you might want to vote for the former Governor from New England.  Regardless how you came about your fortune…whether you worked up from nothing through your own hard work (and very likely the labor of many that work for you that helped), or if you were seeded a good sum as a start or even if you inherited most of your wealth, your instinct to protect as much of your riches and shield it from taxes is understandable.

However if you love this country, if you are patriotic, and if you are among the multitudes that work hard every day struggling to get ahead while a relatively small percentage of the already wealthy get even richer, then your desire for a more just share of the economic pie is equally understandable…and your instinct to check the box next to the President’s name also makes perfect sense.

It isn’t complicated, it isn’t about good or bad, it isn’t about patriotism and there really isn’t a need for all the acrimonious bank-n-forth. If you’re rich…or even just very well off, go ahead and vote for the Governor. He has been unequivocal in his pledge to protect your interests…and I suspect as a man of his word…he will do just that. However if you’re not rich…or even among the population’s top 10% of income earners, then consider punching the card for a President committed to protecting working people and their families.

My grandpa  was the hardworking son of Swedish immigrants and despite his efforts and struggles, he never earned much more than 10K in any given year. Despite his rigid social beliefs deeply rooted in the hugely conservative Evangelical Free Church, he was a yellow dog Roosevelt Democrat that never forgave Herbert Hoover for “turning his back” on the family farm during the Great Depression. I don’t know of a more religious man than my grandpa…and when he died in 1991 he actually looked forward to a mansion on a hilltop situated on streets paved with gold. In the living room of his modest North Dakota home there was a picture of Jesus Christ. Just next to it was a picture of Franklin D. Roosevelt…and as I recall…the carpenter’s picture hung no higher than the one of the former president. I asked him once how he could be a Democrat given his old-school social ideology and without hesitation he responded by saying that it really wasn’t all that complicated. “If you sign the front of the payroll check you’re a Republican…if you sign the back…you’re a Democrat.” I sign the back…I’m a Democrat. It’s pretty simple.” 

Interestingly, most of his grandkids (not me) have attained astonishing wealth as hardworking business owners in the domestic automobile industry.   They are devotedly religious people with a strong Midwestern work ethic. On pay day, they sign the front of the checks of their hardworking employees. All of my successful cousins own multiple homes and are dyed-in-the-wool Republicans. I don't hold it against them...were I in the same boat, I might vote the same way. But I'm not…and when pay day comes for me…I still sign the back of my check. I’m a Democrat…and this November I’ll proudly pull the level for the President that saved the Domestic auto industry for the good of the country…for my cousins that own dealerships...and for so many of my hardworking Brothers and Sisters that produce the vehicles they successful sell and service.  

It’s simple, it makes perfect sense and there’s no need for any hard feelings. Vote in your economic best interests and nobody should resent you for it. If you’re wealthy…vote for Mitt. If you’re working…vote for Obama. Grandpa was right…it’s really not all that confusing.

I wish I had some game...